Marcescent
by pourtheruminmyeyes
Summary: Namine was a tortured soul with little family and no friends to speak of. Everything she did, she did it perfectly. He didn't realize that this was because she refused to do anything she could not do perfectly.


**Marcescent**

She was a particular girl. She positively refused to wear a pair of shoes with a heel of less than two or more than three inches, insisting that the correct height made a charming _click _as opposed to an obnoxious clatter. Worse still, was a shoe with no 'personality' at all. The designs on the pockets of her jeans had to color coordinate with not only her tops and shoes, but her socks as well. A poem that didn't rhyme was simply unacceptable, and the only book she would willingly read was _The Catcher in the Rye_.

After concluding that a brush stroke that was not perfect was not a brush stroke at all, but the result of a controlled seizure that all artists seemed to have regularly, she had to quit painting. Because you see, there is no such thing as a perfect brush stroke. They are all unique and near impossible to recreate exactly, thus she could deem none worthy.

With such exact demands, making friends was an impossible task and she could not dream up a man so close to perfection. She wanted such qualities as charm, good looks, wit, and confidence. But a boy who was charming could be _too_ suave. A boy who was good-looking could be _too_ attractive. A boy who was witty could be _too_ intellectual. And a confident guy almost always verged on arrogance. So even if she found a boy with all of her desired qualities, he could be _too_ desirable. And that simply wouldn't do.

Thus in all of her 15 years, she had yet to be known as somebody's girlfriend. She had yet to hold hands and yet to be kissed. She had yet to fall in love. She just reminded herself that they say the prettiest girls are the loneliest.

It could very well be true. Men have inflated egos, yes, but they can deflate at the drop of a hat. So they don't always approach the sexiest girl, because she might say no. Especially when she is quiet and reserved, a pretty girl can come off as conceited. She was a pretty girl _and_ she kept to herself.

So it took him years to muster up the courage. He knew little about her, but he knew her name: Namine. That was enough right? Girls liked spontaneous gestures from charming, somewhat-strangers. He lived just around the block and she had to pass by his house on Poplar Avenue everyday on the way to school. She would recognize him and respond amiably. Or so he thought.

He peeked through the curtains of his sister's bedroom window that overlooked the street. It was working too perfectly, it had started raining and she was without an umbrella. He raced out the front door with his oversized navy blue umbrella and locked the security door behind him.

"Hey, you need some cover from the rain?" He called after her, but she didn't turn to respond. She must not have heard him. "Namine!" He mistakenly used her name.

She stopped in her tracks, but kept the pointed toes of her ankle boots facing west. He ran to catch up to her and invited her under the umbrella with a hand gesture. She accepted and they walked along side one another.

"So... you live around the corner, right?" He tried to strike up a conversation.

"You know my name and where I live?" She inquired suspiciously.

"Well yeah. We've been going to school together since... 6th grade. I guess I learned your name through other people. That's not so strange," he tried to explain.

"No it's not strange to know a person's name without ever having been formally introduced, but it is strange to admit to a person that you know their name. Especially if it is at all possible that the person not know their- or your name in return."

"Oh. I'm sorry. Well I'm Roxas. It's nice to meet you."

"Likewise," she said it in a tone nearing sarcasm, but he didn't seem to notice. They had spoken directly to one another, and to him it felt like just the beginning.

It was the beginning, but a different kind of beginning to the separate parties. In the next six months they would learn a fair deal about each other while walking to and from school everyday, rain or shine.

Roxas was bothersome to say the least. After walking her home every day he lingered in the driveway. He could ramble on and on about nothing in particular. He used too many hand gestures when he was telling a story. His shoes had no personality. He could barely dress himself. He didn't listen to Elvis. He didn't understand _The Catcher in the Rye_. His hobbies included skating and aimless destruction. He had siblings. He had friends. He was happy.

Namine was a tortured soul with little family and no friends to speak of. She was smart. She only spoke up when she really had something to say. And everything she did, she did it perfectly.

He didn't realize that this was because she refused to do anything she could not do perfectly.

Namine needed to tell someone what was happening to her. It needed to make sense when she was gone. Roxas would listen to anything she had to say, making him the perfect candidate.

"I used to paint," she began when they reached her front door after walking home from school in silence.

"You don't anymore?" Honest curiosity echoed in his voice.

"I had to stop. There was too much going on in my head. I didn't have time to be perfect at it."

"Well you don't have to be perfect. You don't even have to be good. You just have to enjoy it."

"You don't understand. You don't know what it's like to be in this constant state of marcescence."

"Sorry- what?"

"I hate all these things that used to make me happy. I don't sleep anymore. I cry all the time for no reason. I've been withering away for years and I can't hold on anymore. Just know Roxas, that as much disdain as I held for you-"

"Why are you speaking in past-tense?"

"Just know that I loved you," she stared at the ground as she said it.

A feeling rushed over him and her words didn't matter anymore. His left hand found her right and slid its fingers between hers. With his free hand he lifted her chin. Her eyes were closed but tears still escaped and danced around her cheekbones before slipping down the length of her face, collecting at her jaw line and racing for the concrete. He ignored their display and brought her closer and closer still. He closed the distance between them by caressing her lips with his. She didn't kiss back, but pulled away.

"If I can't do it perfectly I don't want to do it at all," she told him. She reached for the door and slipped inside before he could say a word.

Like always, he lingered in her driveway for a moment. Like always, he thought of her all day. Like always, he dreamt of her. Like always, he waited for her to walk past his house on Poplar Avenue.

She never showed.

Weeks later he would be sitting in an armchair in the office of the school psychologist, scribbling the last words she had spoken to him down on a clipboard. He handed the pen and clipboard to her and stared at the floor with tears dancing on his facial features.

"These were her last words to you?" The psychologist asked, as though she didn't understand.

"I thought she was talking about kissing."

* * *

><p>I had not written anything in so long because I refused to write anything that would be less than perfect. I was sort of inspired by that. I hope you liked it.<p>

Thanks for reading! Please review, and rate on a scale of 1-10. Constructive criticism would be awesome, I appreciate your insight!


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